


Sovay

by eyegnats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: CYOA, Engagement, F/M, Faerghus Gender Role Navigation, Illustrated, Interactive Fiction, Sylvgrid Big Bang (Fire Emblem), marriage discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats/pseuds/eyegnats
Summary: Sylvain and Ingrid spend a moon apart, and the distance drags up a longing for cemented entwinement Ingrid has never before felt. She hatches a plan to rectify Sylvain's assurances that he will never ask marriage of her, even if it means popping the question herself.A branching, winding, choose your own adventure story for Sylvain and Ingrid's betrothal. Written for the Sylvgrid Big Bang, with art by @anditiucs.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26
Collections: Sylvgrid Big Bang





	1. A new perspective.

**Author's Note:**

> Finale art by the wonderful [Andi](https://twitter.com/anditiucs).

Ingrid seats herself in the saddle of her tall horse. Her armor is light, a precaution for travel more than war. A slim convoy flanks her for the journey west.

Fhirdiad is not a great distance from Gautier, but the length of her stay weighs heavy on her mind. She was to spend the entirety of the Wyvern Moon—thirty-one full, lonesome days—in the capital city, orchestrating estimates for harvest yields and presenting the diplomatic strategy for Sreng that they have worked hard upon for the better half of the year. Sylvain was to keep flock over their two territories in the meantime, maintaining Gautier and Galatea through the harvest itself. It is an equal division of work. It is everything she intended when they decided to be partners in nobility and in life, splitting the load amongst themselves and reaping the reward of their matched efforts.

It is going to be very lonely.

"Travel safe, yeah?" Sylvain asks, patting the flank of her pale gray horse.

He's dressed warm for the Wyvern weather, his doublet pillow-stitched and trimmed with fur. His hair is tousled. He's woken before the peek of dawn to see her off. He smiles to her, as if this is only a brief goodbye.

"Fhirdiad's walls are hardly known for their danger," Ingrid replies.

"Travel swift, then," Sylvain says, "and come home to me."

Ingrid gazes down upon him. She frowns. "No matter the swiftness of my travel, it will still be a moon before I see you."

Sylvain offers her a snort of a laugh. "I went through all the trouble of arranging that mountain of breakfast this morning, and you're still grumpy. Chin up, soldier. I will write to you."

Ingrid's eyes do not stray from the happy, pleasant expression on his face.

"I will be faithful to you," he says, further, his words lilted with implications of his past. He has jumped to this conclusion of his own volition, and she wonders how heavy his history weighs on him despite his current status as the most sincere of knights. He nods to her—in confirmation, and awareness, and in search of trust.

"I'm hardly concerned with your loyalty," Ingrid snips back.

"Good," Sylvain affirms. He pets her horse, again, and says, "good, you know you've got me."

 _Got him._ It's a simple term. Vague beneath the eyes of the law but recognized in the most base instincts of humanity. Ingrid sighs. "I am aware," she says, "I don't mean to spoil our goodbye with a sour tone. It’s not that I distrust you, Sylvain. It’s that I…” She frowns, further, fending off a wave of upset. “I will miss you. Terribly."

"Oh, hey, I'll miss you, too," Sylvain replies, simply. The cheerful look on his face has not slipped and Ingrid isn't sure what to make of the idea that it might be genuine. Authentic, in its saccharine sweet smile. It's outright romantic. Ingrid thinks of her novels, of their sequels, of settled knights called off to war once more while their won beloveds linger behind. She thinks of goodbye kisses and assurances that they will return to one another's arms, one another's bed. She thinks of the tension it drapes across the plot—now that knights no-longer-errant possess something to lose.

Sylvain says, "Don't let some fancy capital man sweep you off your feet in Fhirdiad, alright? I know how easily you grow infatuated, but they're all show."

Ingrid states: "My devotion to you is unwavering."

"I know, I know." Sylvain is laughing. "I'm kidding. Isn't it obvious that I'm kidding? I know you don’t want to play house, but I know where we stand."

Ingrid has always had a fancy for battle over house but she’s played worse games with Sylvain, across the years. They are suitably domestic. They are already spouses in all but title.

“You really are a settled man, aren’t you,” Ingrid says.

He replies, “You’re just noticing?”

“I don’t make it a habit to think of marriage.”

Sylvain nods to her, again. “And you know I would never ask it of you.”

Ingrid blinks. Her thoughts echo with the reverberation of Sylvain’s voice. _I know where we stand._

Ingrid leans down and kisses Sylvain. It's awkward, from atop a horse, but her legs are strong and her balance is true. She tilts herself just far enough to kiss his forehead, and then down to his lips. He deepens it. He cups her face and threatens to spill her off her saddle and onto him. She finds herself not against the idea. There is no need for sequels. They can stay like this.

"Come home to me," Sylvain echoes against her lips, and then releases her. It takes an offbeat moment to right herself.

Ingrid nods. "I love you,” she says. It's a single, isolated statement against a backdrop of supplies being loaded and horses stomping their hooves in expectation. "And I will."

  
  
  
  


It’s a two day ride to Fhirdiad by horseback instead of wings. In the lonesome darkness of the overnight, Ingrid’s eyes snap open.

The canvas ceiling of her tent flexes with a light breeze. The camp is silent, save for the unintelligible murmurs of guards outside and the crackle of the fire they sit around. Ingrid has not slept. Ingrid is worn from a full day of travel but her bed rests incomplete without Sylvain. She feels haunted—a great, rising wax in her chest begging for acknowledgement.

She sits up. Her fingertips drag harsh where they claw back through her hairline, pushing her bangs aside from the thoughts clouding her face. She settles with her hands cradling her forehead. She thinks, quite sudden: _I want to marry Sylvain._

It’s not as if the idea is a foreign one. She’s thought it in brief glimpses and long, longing stretches over the past few years of peacetime. Sylvain is bright and alive and embroidered to her in such messy, unkempt, stitches she feels anchored to him in a way untouched by her childhood fantasies of matrimony. This is not the man she thought she would stand before, and these are not the feelings she thought she would feel. Yet she is his wife in all but title. The idea of that title does not bite with the bloody copper it once did.

Her thoughts linger well into the next afternoon. She rides proud and tall despite her restless night. Her poise masks the mounting horror within her mind.

She has sown a decade of contempt for the mere concept of marriage. She has fought and spat and, more often than that, skillfully deflected suitors since she came of age. She has commiserated with Sylvain himself over the obligation, the lack of agency, with which she associates it. There is a tiny flicker of disgust in her that feels she would be surrendering her soul if she was to give in to love, her love, even for him. That doing so would be admitting defeat, admitting to a vapid femininity, admitting to being the lovesick little girl swept up by a brave knight she was always intended to be. She has expressed all of this to Sylvain. She has expressed a great many things to Sylvain over the years, and a not insignificant portion of them involved her distaste for wifedom. She laughs aloud, unprompted, and the men in her travelling convoy look to her in surprise.

Sylvain will never, ever ask her to marry him.

It will never come to pass out of respect for her. He knows her boundaries better than his own, and he will stick to them. She has boxed herself out of her own future. She did not think it would ever be an issue. She thought she would be a stern, solitary knight by now. Or dead. And now that she is alive and at the helm of Galatea and a partnership forged firmer than steel she is unsure how to continue.

She closes her mouth. She gives a curt dip of her head to the surrounding paladins, their eyes searching for command after her sudden outburst. They politely return their attention to the road.

Her desire to wed Sylvain beneath the light of the Goddess grows now that she has made the unfortunate mistake of allowing it ample space in her heart. She will have to signal to Sylvain, somehow, her intentions. She will have to make it clear, somehow, that she desires to mark their relationship in terms firmer than the deep, beastly, mutual possession in their hearts. That she desires him to be hers (on paper, now,) if he’ll have her.

The road to Fhirdiad trails onward. She thinks of three separate schemes to accomplish her goals. Three simple, implicative letters to let him know she’s ready to cement them together. Three traditional signals of engagement—for she is sure she will do this proper, or not at all.

She’s not sure which is best.

The first is the most romantic of her options. Faerghus has long been known for its prose, and classic courting letters litter the conception of almost every marriage in its borders not arranged from birth. Her task upon arriving at her quarters in Castle Blaiddyd will be simple. She will seek a quill, and some parchment, and pen her intentions for Sylvain in the most certain terms the chivalric, chaste conventions for such letters allow. A love note, simple and true and just a tad bit flowery.

The second option is by far the most forward. Noble women were prizes to be convinced in Faerghus. Spouses were seduced by gifts of security and future. Ingrid could send a token of interest to Sylvain, as a man would. Sylvain could indulge himself in unwinding ribbons and receive her intentions alongside… a gift. A lance, maybe, enchanted by a famed Fhirdiad sorcerer, or a saddle, stitched with the unmatched talents of local craftsmen. She’s not sure what it would be but she does know it would signal the continued, equal partnership she desires. She knows he would not reject it.

Her final option is the most traditional, and the most foolproof. It is a proclamation of marriage interest and written statement of dowry from her father. It would be a simple matter to prompt her father to send it. It is how the nobility handles these matters. While she finds the situation somewhat archaic, she rests easy knowing Sylvain was certainly not going to _negotiate_ over her. It will be a direct ordeal and then it will be over. She doesn’t mean to be overly efficient in the matter of marriage, but she finds some relief in the straight path. She has no need to drag out the final seize.

She thinks over her options, and decides…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) A love letter.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071299#workskin)
> 
> [B) A gift of intention.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071572)
> 
> [C) A formal proclamation.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071629)


	2. A love letter.

Ingrid settles on a love letter. She has never sent one before, but she’s consumed enough of them in novels to grasp the broader concepts. She arrives at Castle Blaiddyd late, but wastes no time in lighting a candle and setting to work.

She is not a poet. She knows this, understands this implicitly as she wrenches each individual line from the ether. It does not have to be perfect. She settles for it being enough. Enough for Sylvain would be a scrap of paper with a heart scrawled across it, so she works with low stakes.

There is a small pile of scratched parchment to her left. It grows. She despises the waste. She settles upon:

_ Dearest beloved, _

_ I arrive safe in Fhirdiad with a full but heavy heart. It longs for you, sweet arbiter of my fate. You have haunted every waking moment of my day. I have been thinking a great deal about you, you, the sweet, romantic thing you are, born under the Garland Moon, destined to be entwined with someone truly worthy of your blossom. I have been thinking about our afternoon walks together, and our late-morning breakfasts, and, of course, _

—Ingrid takes a deep breath and forces her pen to keep moving.

_ the unwed evenings we have spent in rooms shut from the Goddess’ judgmental yet gentle eye. I am eager to say that I miss you, Sylvain. _

Ingrid feels thoroughly flushed just from the first paragraph. She forces herself to remain stoic, continuing:

_ I have been thinking. Not worrying, so don’t titter at me of stress, but I have been thinking. I think often of the inseparable unit the two of us have become. I think often of the women who could monopolize your time with far more entertaining, if unproductive things. I think often of your loyal place at my side, despite everything. You are still here, a garland woven upon the crown of my head. A garland that does not fade with the seasons. I think of such things more than you can possibly know or I can properly express. _

_ Please stay by my side, Sylvain. I wish only to let you know that if you _

Ingrid bites her lip, and steels the slight tremor in her penmanship.

_ wish to press things further with me, I feel more than prepared for it. I am ready for whatever our little blossom of an affair seeks to bloom into. I am ready for marriage. If you would see fit to indulge me, I await such steps when I return from Fhirdiad. _

_ With all my love, and the rest of me too, _

_ Ingrid  _

Ingrid lets the letter sit on her desk for two days before she works up the nerve to release it to the world, slipped alongside some tax decrees and an update from Felix. Her thoughts linger on its long journey to Gautier. When one late evening of work sends her thoughts spiralling to the potential of an undue messenger peeking at its contents, she forces herself to bed. It is a very long week.

When Sylvain’s response arrives she feels no relief. She excuses herself from a meal with Felix and settles in her rooms, suitably isolated. She tears open the letter with shaking fingers.

_ Ing! _

Her held breath is released in a stuttered laugh. It is not the introduction she expects, but she reads on:

_ I looked over your letter a good five times before it sunk in that you had written it. You are ever full of surprises, my dearest and oldest and most sensual of friends. Have you always had such talents? You often walked with a novel under your arm in our youth. I suppose I never envisioned the spirit of Faerghan romantics would rub off on you. _

_ As for the contents, well, I miss you too. I think my thoughts fall to you no less than twelve times every hour, upon the minute, like a churchbell. Visiting dignitaries ask me, “Sylvain, what time is it now?” And I must tell them that I have thought of you sixty-seven instances so far today, and make them do them math. I do love making people do the math, don’t I? I think you once told me that about myself. _

_ I hope to illustrate my loyalty to you with the above. You consume my thoughts, the little spitfire you are. You slowroast me, Ingrid, until my shell cracks and I am left raw and open beneath you. I know you are apart from me now. I know we yearn for one another as if we are recently wed. I know you miss making the Goddess politely close her eyes when we _

Ingrid rubs at warm cheeks and skips over the next sentence, and then the next paragraph. It’s sickeningly lurid in metaphoric detail. She melts with embarrassment. She cringes when he compares himself to a stray mallard who has mistaken her ocean for a pond and is now witnessing the rush and wave of her—er, pleasure—with shocked, duckbilled wonder.

Ingrid reaches the end of the page and has to flip it over.

_ I long for you, clearly. Was that duck thing weird? I think that duck thing might have been weird. I love you. I wish that in this very moment my hand was resting upon your _

Ingrid realizes she should not have included the line about lying with him in her letter. She has opened these gates herself. Her eyes glaze over the prose and do not return to focus until the final lines of the message. The words grow small as he runs out of space on the parchment, and she’s forced to squint.

_ My grander point is that we can have this, have one another, without the pressure of some ancient tradition. Without the glaring eye of your father. I know we are apart, now, and in that distance you find yourself anxious to cement ourselves on some meaningless piece of paper. We do not have to, Ingrid. You do not have to. I would never ask that of you, and I hate to imagine you, alone in Fhirdiad, requesting it of me out of obligation. I hate to imagine you concerned for where we stand. You’ve got me. You know you’ve got me. _

_ You are the ocean and I will be your Garland Moon. And we will move in tandem through mysterious, loyal forces not yet understood by the propriety of this land. _

_ Yours, _

_ Sylvain _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) Damn it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071713#workskin)


	3. A gift of intention.

Ingrid sends only a polite note of her safe arrival in Fhirdiad to Sylvain, and then sets out in search of something more substantial to gift. She browses Fhirdiad’s dense markets in all hours not spent toward her duties. She keeps an eye out for something special, something suitably Sylvain. She hums, her fingers dipping over fabrics and tea sets and portraits of landscapes far from the ecology of Faerghus. 

She finds what she is looking for a week into her hunt. It’s tall and sturdy: a shield, forged in steel and engraved with delicate scenes from folklore. Ingrid holds it in her hands and tilts it, watching the sunlight drag in a bright strip back and forth across the mythos. 

She and Sylvain used to play out this particular story when they were young. They would fight with sticks and fields instead of swords and violent highways, but they would go through each notch of its plot in full. Ingrid sees the reflection of every scene of her childhood theatrics in the shield: the anxious lady disguising herself as a thief in the midst of Magdrid, gripping a knife and demanding her beloved remove his wedding ring, just to see if he will. Ingrid remembers whacking Sylvain with a stick when he wanted to play coy and give up the weak little daisy chain around his finger. She remembers, clearer, the way he would follow the plot direct and dramatically pledge to die for his daisy ring. Her daisy ring. She’d whack him sometimes after that, too. Just to initiate a more concrete swordfight before the final reveal that she was truly his love, in disguise all along, and she wasn’t happy that he would die over something as trivial as a ring.

Faerghan folklore loved its dramatics, and its death pledges. Ingrid knows this. She watches her reflection smile in the mirror of the shield. She asks to purchase it, and has it sent to Gautier.

_ I saw this and thought of you. If you would seek to exchange rings with me, I promise not to pretend to rob you of it. _

_ With love, _

_ Ingrid _

She awaits Sylvain’s response. She awaits a letter, presented to her in a meeting or meal. She receives, instead, a mess of her own quarters after returning from a diplomatic strategy meeting.

Sylvain has returned her gift tenfold. Deep, maroon, autumnal flowers litter every inch of her personal rooms. They are in uniform jars centered in rows along walls and upon tabletops. They spill across the floor like new carpet. They are bound in bright ribbon and large bows. They are fresh, and exist before her in excessive amounts. The whole room smells sweet with their fragrance.

A note has been left on her desk. 

_ Ingrid, _

_ Sending a shield instead of proper correspondence is very you.  _

_ I love it, by the way. I do. I’m looking at it right now, dragging my fingertips over the craftsmanship in some absent longing for your presence. It’s so very you, Ingrid. Which is why the accompanying letter surprised me with its inverse of your voice. _

_ I see the discussion we had before your departure still weighs heavy on your mind. I meant my words in jest but it pains me, deep in my chest, that you may still find yourself anxious over our status as a pair. You’ve got me. And Ingrid, you have had me. You have had me so fully and for so long that every day I fear the man I would be in some dark, mirrored universe without you. _

_ We do not have to wed, Ingrid. I hope mere distance is not enough to pressure you to think otherwise. I truly hope your father hasn’t been pressuring you to think otherwise. If he has, I’ll send a stern letter from Gautier. I’ll use the fancy parchment and everything. Wouldn’t that be fun? _

_ I do not have to give up my ring to a robber if I have no ring to give, if that ring is deeper than gold and tighter than a fingerband. I do not have to give up my ring to a robber if I already recognize that robber as you, my beloved, even in the thickest fog of Magdred. You would disguise yourself and attempt to jump me on some sightless highway and I would jump you right back. And I would love you, and you would love me, intimately, right there on the side of the road and yet unseen in the murk by the eyes of travellers and the Goddess herself. Wouldn’t that be fun? Wouldn’t that actually be fun? _

_ Anyway, harvest is going well. I thought I’d share some of our bounty with your guest quarters. _

_ Always yours, _

_ Sylvain _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) Damn it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071713#workskin)


	4. A formal proclamation.

Right, then. Simple and effective. Ingrid is hardly a woman willing to bash her shins on the low tables of romance, and so she writes of her safe arrival in Fhirdiad to Sylvain. Then, she sits herself at her desk to pen a far more drastic letter.

Her father has not questioned her rule of Galatea. He hasn’t pressured her to marriage in some time, the wizened man probably soothed with the solution of  _ eventually. _ Eventually is now. Soon, at least. Ingrid takes a deep breath and writes:

_ Father, _

_ I imagine you’ll be thrilled to hear this, but after some time as an entwined couple I have decided I wish to marry Sylvain of House Gautier. He has not put forward a formal proposition, mostly due to my influence, unfortunately, but I know in my heart he would not refuse if asked. _

_ I would like to do this final step, if nothing else, proper. If you would see him fit for Galatea’s progeny—and I insist and am prepared to sternly insist that you do—then I would see fit for you to send a formal letter of betrothal on my behalf. _

_ I love him, Father. I love him so deeply I frighten myself. I’m sure you and Mother never thought you’d see the day where I would write such words, or maybe you did and your patience was simply saint-bound, but I do love him. Thank you for permitting me to discover such sensations on my own command, and at my own decision. I know you did not have to. _

_ You trusted fate and I am so pleased to inform you that fate has blessed me with a bounty greater than any of my grandest, wavering hopes. _

_ Please give my love to Mother. I’m sure she’ll be pleased. _

_ Yours and Galatea’s daughter, _

_ Ingrid _

The thrill Ingrid receives from sending the letter is borderline giddy. This is the girlish flounce she so feared, and yet she does not find herself minding its presence as she goes about her political duty in Fhirdiad. She waits, and receives a letter of cheerful agreement from her father. She waits, and receives a letter of relieved congratulations from her mother. She waits, and receives a letter from Sylvain.

_ Ingrid, hey, your father may have contacted you recently but I’m hoping I get to you first. Nothing serious. I’ll state that up here. I don’t want to stress you out in the midst of your duty, but I do want to let you know your father has sent me a very unsubtle proclamation of marriage interest  _ _ for y _ _ regarding you. _

Sylvain’s penmanship is sloppy and rushed.

_ I rejected it of course. I rejected it, but I want to be sure the backlash does not fall upon you. You’re doing great work in Fhirdiad—smart work, noble work, Felix tells me he wishes he had a room of a dozen Ingrids—and I am terrified your father’s untimely nagging may interrupt your stride. I know you say he’s harmless. I understand he’s not the worst father Faerghus has to offer. I still don’t want you to be forced to deal with him when we’re on the cusp of a new dawn. _

_ I love you, Ingrid. I held my tongue in lashing out at him as I’m sure you would have asked of me if you were here, but I won’t stand for him making decisions over your head. I don’t care if he thinks I am untrustworthy or unwilling to commit when I am already bound, unbreaking, to you. He is simply a man too slow on the uptake. And trust me when I tell you, Ingrid: that’s his business. _

_ I love you so much. Don’t let him imply otherwise. _

_ Always yours, _

_ Sylvain _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) Damn it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071713#workskin)


	5. Damn it.

“So what do you think?” Ingrid asks, hesitant, munching on an evening teacake in Felix’s study. She grips Sylvain’s letter in hand, her cheeks lightly flushed from reading it aloud. 

Felix stares, dull and disapproving, back at her. He scowls. “Disgusting.”

“‘Disgusting,’” she says, loud. Her mouth is full of food.

“Yes,” he replies. “I’ve had to watch Dedue dance so delicate, so firmly platonic around Dimitri for six months and now you arrive in Fhirdiad with marital issues.”

“They’re not marital issues if we’re not married.”

The King’s Right Hand sighs. He looks out of place surrounded by books and paperwork instead of a training square. He slouches. “Issues regarding the marriage that you possess on all levels outside the parchment itself,” Felix says, “whatever. I don’t know why I’m suddenly everyone’s relationship counselor.”

“You have a very no-nonsense attitude towards such things,” Ingrid tells him. “In the fugue state of love your perspective can be… refreshing.”

Felix scoffs. “I have nothing to offer beyond common sense.”

“Even so, I find myself beyond such reason.” Ingrid takes another bite of teacake. “I think I should cement a firmer stance to him, somehow. He fears any forward gesture I make towards marriage is done out of obligation, and I can’t fault him for that, but there must be some way to seduce him into accepting my honest feelings.”

Felix looks unimpressed. “I’ll tell you what I told Dimitri.”

“And what’s that?”

“Sit him down and talk about this,” Felix says. “Hash out the exact nature of your relationship. Explain what you want. Ask what he wants. Act like it’s a policy negotiation if you can’t see fit to handle it as proper adults.”

Ingrid thinks this over. The corners of her mouth slip, and her voice comes out in something frustratingly close to a whine. “If he would just accept the idea that I might, actually, want to be his wife—”

“Tell him,” Felix replies, curt.

“I’ve already told him.”

“Keep telling him. He’s dense.”

“...Dense,” Ingrid says. Her voice sounds distant, suddenly. “Let him know for certain. Right. Yes.”

“Tell him,” Felix says, once more. “Direct.” Ingrid’s mind has wandered to a further place than the surrounding study. Felix must notice because he says, “Are you listening to me? Sylvain can be purposefully obtuse if he likes something the way it is. You have to tell him things directly.”

“Of course,” Ingrid responds, tone empty and all but ignoring him. Half-formed ideas have begun to swim faster. “...Excuse me, Felix. It’s nearing bedtime and I have much to think about.”

Felix groans. “Directly, Ingrid,” he says, one final time.

She departs.

  
  


Ingrid stares up at the ceiling in her Fhirdiad quarters that night. It’s dark, the cloud cover blocking out even the faintest trace of moon, and in the inkblot shadows of her room she can see the faint outlines of a plan.

Two plans, to be precise. Two simple paths forward to proving herself a worthy and willing spouse. She need only to convince Sylvain of her dedication. She need only to act as his betrothed in the clearest ways Faerghus can offer. Direct, just as Felix specified. Worthy. Willing. Wanting.

Obvious.

Unfortunately, the clarity of marital readiness tended to fall in a binary pattern in Faerghus. She did not necessarily need to play the part of a competent, wooed future-wife—she’s sure Sylvain would be just as lured to her if she acted as the traditional male suitor—but she’s certain anything less than full devotion to one of the roles would lead her to the muddled mess of signals she is currently. She has consumed the romance novels. She has watched the lovers who have come before her. She knows the proper signals. She will make herself so forward when she returns to Gautier even the most opaque mask of Sylvain will not be able to refute her intentions.

She thinks over her two, infallible options:

There is a harvest tournament at the end of the moon. She could enter as a knight, as a suitor, and win it in Sylvain’s name before every woman present and the Goddess herself. There are few gestures of love stronger in Faerghus. She will woo him as the great knights of yore wooed their beloveds. She will prove herself as a warrior and a protector. A worthy marital partner. She will fight in the name of pageantry and victory and potential injury, and then she will ask him to marry him.

Or.

There is a harvest festival at the end of the moon. She could return as a proper noble lady, and prove to him she is willing to run a house alongside their two counties. She could plan the festival, welcome the noblemen, charm the crowds. She wants Sylvain to know that she does not scowl at the idea any longer. Being Ingrid and being a wife are not mutually exclusive, and they never will be. She will play the role of his beloved, and she will ask him to ask her to marry him.

She decides…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) To be his knight.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71071881#workskin)
> 
> [B) To be his lady.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072100#workskin)


	6. To be his knight.

It’s decided.

Ingrid has always felt stronger on a horse than in a dress and stands confident in the decision to play to her strengths. She finishes her duties in Fhirdiad. She awaits the days ticking by, receives harvest updates from Sylvain, and yearns for home. She accomplishes her intentions. She accomplishes everything the two of them intended and more. Her chest heaves with pride but it’s still hollow without Sylvain at her side. She stays patient, but it draws waning.

A week before her planned return she receives a formal invitation to the Gautier autumnal festival. Sylvain has signed it with his own hand.

_ If my lady would be so willing, I am in need of a date? _

_ Sylvain _

Oh, he is cheeky. She writes back  _ I suppose a lady could be obliged, dearheart,  _ and stifles her fluttering chest over a long diplomatic meeting that afternoon.

In her off hours, she trains. She practices her steps and sweeps as if she is preparing for war. Her shoulders are stiff from the physical lethargy of politics but she pushes through. She sharpens her body and her blade. She runs drills until she feels ready to win, because losing is not an option. She pens a letter to the tournament keep, informing him of her desire to participate in the games. She asks him to keep it a secret.

And just like that, her work comes to a close.

King Dimitri, Felix, and all her Fhirdiad friends wish her well upon her departure. She attempts composure, but every inch of her thrums with elation. She rides home with a smile on her face. She carries back a job well done. When she arrives in Gautier, it is as an awaited hero. Sylvain sweeps her off her feet and kisses her like she’s a bannerman home from war.

“Festival is this weekend, unfortunately,” he murmurs to her as maids carry her bags and politely avert their gazes from their public display, “but I’m sure we can find some time alone in the chaos.”

“Not looking forward to the festivities?” she inquires, with the knowing smile of a woman with a scheme.

“No,” he says. “No, not really. Not at all. The only thing I’ve been able to think about is you.”

He won’t let her help with the preparations. He handles the trivial decisions. He throws a festival with the charm and pomp he’s known for, and tells her to rest. Hundreds attend. Sylvain works hard. She keeps her secret close to her chest.

Which is why when he says, the morning of the tournament, “Hey, let’s not bother with this,” she barely processes it.

She is in the middle of fastening the collar of her tunic. She blinks, and looks up to him. “Hm?”

“The festival,” he says. “There’s food and wine and bloodsport. There’s happy knights and nobles. We did our duty. Let’s put in an appearance and get out of there.”

“I…” she starts. “What about the tournament?”

Sylvain shrugs. “It’s not that important.”

“It is, though,” she says. Sylvain searches for words, and when he doesn’t find them fast enough, she adds, “It’s important, Sylvain. Gautier is hosting.”

“It’s just a bit…” He trails off, and sighs. “I don’t know how to properly express this, but—I don’t want to leer over it all. We already won a war. You think we’d be satiated on violence for a while.”

“It’s traditional,” she says. 

“Yes, I know—”

“It’s the autumn harvest,” she says.

“Yes,” he replies. “I realize that. Obviously, there is some historic value. I’m not discounting the precedent of it all.”

“...I’m participating,” she states.

This catches Sylvain by surprise.

It is not a happy, pleasant surprise. He furrows his brow. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” Ingrid parrots. “I’m a knight, aren’t I?”

“A knight with more than enough glory to not risk injury on worthless tournament games,” Sylvain says.

Ingrid frowns. “You think I’m going to get hurt?”

“No, I—this isn’t about you, specifically, I just…” His gaze casts away from her. “Haven’t we done enough fighting? For a lifetime?” When he looks back it is with a smile, broad and masking. “Aren’t you tired of it? Just a bit?”

Ingrid hums, dismissive. “Honor is something to be both won and maintained.”

Ingrid watches him process each syllable of her words. “Right,” he says, after a long beat. He nods to her. “Of course. Put in a good word for Gautier’s honor, too, then.”

Ingrid reaches a palm up to cup the side of his face. She tilts it to her, connecting their gazes and giving him a slight smile. She leans up, tipping onto her toes. He leans down to kiss her and she dodges, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek instead. He lets out a laugh.

“Oh, Love,” she tells him, whispering it close to his ear, “I’m going to win this in your name.”

  
  


Ingrid rides her horse tall and proud onto the sporting grounds. It has been a long time since she has dressed herself in full armor, and she feels some comfort in its shell. She keeps her head held high. The crowd calls for her, and for the Gautier banner she has added to her tack. She grins back, shoulders proud and broad.

She trots her requisite loop around the jousting strip. Then, she stops before the elevated Host’s Seat, gesturing her lancing arm to the host himself. The crowd’s cheers lift. Sylvain nods to her with a small, sheepish smile. He lifts his hand in acknowledgement of the acknowledgement.

“I promise victory to Gautier,” Ingrid calls to her audience, to her people, her dominant hand thrusting her lance towards the sky. Applause roars. Sylvain accepts the dedication. The man beside him claps him on the shoulder. In congratulations, maybe, or in some comment on her. She can taste her triumph.

It comes in time, blow for blow. Ingrid keeps her lance steady in spats, and spars, and jousts. Her speed is unmatched. Her crest shines. She rolls with what blunted lance-tips do land on her body, their true target deflected and her pain simple background noise on her path to success. 

Sylvain watches her. She glances at him after every point, every game, and he’s always watching her. He smiles when her momentum flexes strong. He flinches when she takes a hit. He grows pale when a spear-shaft knocks blunt against her face, blood splattering from her nose with the impact. The man who had placed a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder keeps Sylvain in his Host’s Seat as she attempts to staunch the bleeding, talking him down from a scene when the hit is deemed legal.

The day grows long and Ingrid’s lead grows tall. It becomes impossible for any competitor to overtake her in points, and so she completes the final game with the attitude of an indulgent victory lap. She has won. She has, truly, and the sensation she feels atop a horse and in the armor of a true, legendary knight is unmatched.

The victory ceremony is swift. The entertainment is over, and it is nearly dinner, and so Sylvain is shoved down from his Seat and onto the grounds so that she might swoop him onto her horse and display them both, for all to see, as victors worthy of being their protectors and leaders. The thrum of the crowd swims in her ears.

Sylvain asks if she’s hurt.

Sylvain asks if she’s hurt, again, in the dim light of their quarters that night. The festivities have faded to drunken sleep. Ingrid is in the process of unbuckling her armor. 

“You act as if we were children playing with sharpened blades,” she notes, teasing, and removes her breastplate. She has already laid her nightshift on the bed to change into. 

“You took some nasty hits,” Sylvain replies, and when she narrows her eyes he raises his arms in defense. “Not many. Let’s be clear.”

She snorts a laugh at him. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, I know you’re fine. You’re always fine.” Ingrid tugs her tunic over her head. Sylvain says, “Humor my worry, though, won’t you? You are my champion, and my...”

His voice fades out. Ingrid sets to folding the tunic in her hands to place aside for wash, and waits for him to continue. Sylvain does not continue. 

“Your what?” Ingrid asks. She smiles up at him, the hum of her pride still bright along her edges, but he is not looking at her face. His stare drags along the flat planes of her body. Ingrid would mistake his gaze for lurid if his frown was not so pronounced, if his eyes did not catch so disapproving on each mottled, purpling bruise dotting her torso.

When he speaks his voice is so small. So plain. “You’re hurt,” he says. 

“I am not,” she replies. She quickly picks up her nightshirt and shrugs it over her shoulders.

“Ingrid…” Sylvain’s voice is distant as she buttons up the garment with quick, diligent fingertips. She will not tolerate his displeasure at surface injuries. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

She finishes the top button and looks up at him. “What is it that I have done?”

Sylvain swallows. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“The core of Faerghus lies in its faith in its nobility.”

“You don’t have to hurt yourself, for anyone.” Sylvain’s voice is steady and low. “But especially not for me.”

Ingrid scoffs. “I remind you: I am far from hurt.”

“That is what you’re attempting to accomplish here, though, isn’t it?” Sylvain asks. “Entering a tournament, winning it in my name, proving your—your worth, or what have you, with violence.”

“I just wanted to surprise you,” Ingrid tells him.

“So this  _ was _ for me?” Sylvain asks.

“Yes,” Ingrid says. “Yes, of course, who else would it have been for?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m happy to see you happy, Ingrid, but I just want to make sure you know you don’t have to do… this. I don’t care. I’d love you even if you weren’t a war hero.”

“I am a war hero,” Ingrid snaps. She realizes, belated, that her temper has grown hot. Sylvain flinches.

“You are,” Sylvain says. “You always will be. I didn’t mean to dismiss that.”

“I have a reputation to uphold,” she says, calmer, hoping he’ll look back at her from where he lies in bed. “I have to, because I… I can’t be the opposite. You know I can’t be the opposite.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” Sylvain says. “I would never ask this, currently, of you.”

“You shouldn’t have to ask anything of me,” Ingrid replies.

“Good. Because I’m not.”

“Good,” Ingrid states, “because I’m already your knight, and I’m fierce enough to protect you, and I’m strong enough to marry you.”

Sylvain’s head tips back at this. In appraisal more than surprise. It’s a clumsy implication, but direct enough to signal her intentions. Ingrid stands stiff at the foot of their bed in her nightshirt and awaits his response. 

“Ah,” he says. It’s a terrible response. “That’s what this is about.” She has no idea what he means. 

“Yes,” she says.

Sylvain’s expression turns a bit coy. “You want to marry me,” he says.

“Yes,” she confirms. “I’ve said as much before.”

He looks away from her again, thoughtful and sly. “And all this, then. You were attempting to court me.”

Ingrid nods. “I know you love me. But there is usually—there’s reasons, for these things. Foundations. Everyone must understand why you have chosen me, why I stand at your side. I’ll ensure it.” Ingrid says, “I intend to defend you to my last breath. My devotion shall not waver, even in peacetime. Everyone will be certain that I am your stalwart knight.”

“I’ve never been overly concerned with the opinions of ‘everyone,’” Sylvain smiles.

Ingrid frowns. “...Sylvain. If I cannot be a good wife to you, at least allow me this. It’s all I ask.”

The crinkle of amusement in Sylvain’s eyes darkens.

“Right,” he says. He laughs and it sounds like a defeat. “Sure. Can we talk about this in the morning? I don’t want all this heavy chat to tarnish your victory.”

“It has not,” Ingrid says, certain.

Sylvain dips his head in agreement. “Great. Then come to bed, Champion.”

Ingrid hesitates, feeling their conversation lies unfinished and cut loose upon the floor. But Sylvain gestures to the warm covers beside him and she cannot refute his prompting.

There is some easy, instant comfort in lying at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) Sleep.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072139#workskin)


	7. To be his lady.

It’s decided.

There will be no surer signal of her acceptance of matrimony than acting as a proper Lady of the House. Ingrid purchases a new dress in Fhirdiad and seeks out Mercedes for help with her makeup. She asks for the royal carriage to escort her home when the time comes to pass. She plans to make an impression.

Her duties in Fhirdiad wrap up beautifully. She has a knack for even-headed politics, but even so she awaits the days’ tick onwards. She accomplishes everything her and Sylvain intended, and more. Her chest heaves with pride but it’s still hollow without Sylvain at her side. She stays patient, but it draws waning.

A week before her planned return she receives a formal invitation to the Gautier autumnal festival. Sylvain has signed it with his own hand.

_ If my lady would be so willing, I am in need of a date? _

_ Sylvain _

Oh, he is cheeky. She writes back  _ A lady would be honored, dearheart,  _ and stifles her fluttering chest over a long diplomatic meeting that afternoon.

And just like that, her work comes to a close.

King Dimitri, Felix, and all her Fhirdiad friends wish her well upon her departure. She attempts composure, but every inch of her thrums with elation. She rides home in a carriage with a smile on her face. She carries back a job well done. When she arrives in Gautier, it is as an awaited lover. Sylvain sweeps her off her feet and kisses her like she’s his long-lost bride.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her, and the schoolgirl she has never allowed herself to be soars.

“And you look handsome,” she says.

“Festival is this weekend, unfortunately,” he murmurs to her as maids carry her bags and politely avert their gazes from their public display, “but I’m sure we can find some time alone in the chaos.”

“Not looking forward to the festivities?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “No, not really. Not at all. The only thing I’ve been able to think about is you.”

“I’m set on helping with everything.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She smiles to him, readied for her tasks ahead.

Ingrid sets about her duty as soon as her bags are unpacked and put away. She inquires about every inch of the preparation, the heavy velvet of her dress nearly polishing the floors of Gautier Castle with her path from decorators to cooks to tournament keeps. She has only a week, and this work is not work she is experienced in. The days grow as long as her skirts, dragging behind her as she selects menu items and settles upon a deep, autumnal purple over orange for the festival banners. She has little idea of if she is making the correct decisions but she cannot afford to question herself. She is a noble woman in spirit and presentation, and she commands the authority she’s witnessed in her own mother when Galatea was forced to scrape together funds to host such grand, important events.

She refutes any offers from Sylvain to help. Then, she refutes Sylvain’s demands to help. She places him in charge of assessing the preparedness of the jousting tournament, just to give him something to do. He does not bother her after that.

The festival is upon them soon enough, but Ingrid is ready. She has never felt so ready for something in her life, so certain in a scheme. Sylvain has responded to her determination with mild befuddlement so far, but she intends to execute the event to such perfection that her desire to walk as his wife will be unquestioned. She offers her arm to him when the time comes. She allows him to escort her down the jousting strip in her best dress. She waves to the attending nobility, to the cheering townspeople. She seats him at his throne-like Host Seat and then settles, happy, in the chair at his side. 

Ingrid has rarely watched a tournament as a spectator. Even when not participating, she always engaged the spectacle with some level of self-projection. Now she cheers when appropriate, gasps along with those around her. Sylvain keeps his eyes on her. She catches his stare every so often, and each time his eyebrows raise. Confused, as if to say, “this is new.”

She smiles, as if to reply, “and isn’t it nice?”

The tournament ends with a swell of triumph for a young, underdog knight and the evening moves along to the anticipated harvest feast. Ingrid has arranged for every inch of it, from place setting to candle scent. In truth, she has no idea if it looks alright, but Sylvain seems pleased when he takes his seat at the head of the long table.

Ingrid kisses him on the cheek. The other guests have not yet arrived, so she permits the two of them a moment of intimacy. “You look charming tonight, Margrave,” she murmurs.

Sylvain snorts at the name. “As do you, My Lady.”

Ingrid has never heard Sylvain call her My Lady in his life. It’s formal, and seemingly in acknowledgement of her newfound role. She beams down at him, and says, “I’ll speak to you after dinner, then.”

“...What?”

Guests enter. Ingrid ignores Sylvain’s surprise and takes her place where she has never sat before—in the proper seat for the Lady of the House, the seat she has always been reluctant to use when staying in Gautier. A maid offers her the regal chair and Ingrid places herself upon it. Ingrid keeps her posture tall as the more exclusive festival guests filter into the dining hall for the nobleman’s feast.

Ingrid sits at the opposite end of the long, long, endlessly long table, directly across from Sylvain. He is so far away that she can just barely make out the expression upon his face. It is a bewildered one, the kind he makes when she has offered a taste of her rare, dry humor and he is trying to determine if she is joking. He keeps glancing at the empty seat to his right. Her usual spot, the one she claimed when she first started spending extensive time in his home.

When a visiting dignitary from the Alliance takes her old chair, Sylvain’s almost-amused confusion drops to a frown.

Ingrid entertains the noble ladies to her left and right. She even offers a small toast with them, to health and harvest and love. Sylvain does not take his eyes off of her. Sylvain has not taken his eyes off of her all day. She wonders if this is what it’s like to be a true beloved, in the traditional sense. If this is what it’s like to enrapture a man entirely. 

Halfway through dinner, Sylvain excuses himself from the table. 

Ingrid notes the hunched upset in Sylvain’s posture and follows after him. It takes her a moment to politely wind down her conversation, but she does so with only a few blunt excuses for departure. Inelegant but effective enough. She is getting better at this.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, when she approaches the balcony Sylvain has escaped to.

Sylvain rests against the banister, his eyes closed and his chest heaving in deep breaths.

“Oh, hello.” Sylvain’s eyelids flutter open and he looks to her. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t notice you’d followed.”

“You’re upset,” Ingrid states. Because she has insight into these things, sometimes. She would like to have insight into them more.

“I’m not upset,” he says.

“You are.”

Sylvain sighs. Smiles. “Aright, I’ll bite. I am.”

Ingrid nods. “Are you stressed? Has something gone wrong with the festivities?”

“Ingrid I could care less about the festivities.” Sylvain’s head rolls away from her and towards the night sky. He’s troubled, she can see it etched into every line of his face now that she’s returned to him, now that she’s close.

“Is this about—”

“You looked like my mother in there,” he interrupts.

“That’s,” Ingrid starts, unsure. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

His frown is so pronounced it looks made of stone. It looks as if he has never smiled in his life. “I had a horrifying thought that I must look like my father. That’s all.”

“...Ah,” she says.

“Yeah.”

She reaches out and places a hand on his bicep. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Especially if I—”

“You didn’t do anything,” he assures her, certain and quickly. “I mean, you’re on a weird kick right now, I won’t deny that, but this is… This is me.”

Ingrid nods. “Even so, it’s my last intention to unnerve you.”

“What is going on, anyway?” he asks. He still sounds upset. “You’ve always flirted with the idea of femininity, and I won’t deny that you make for a more authoritative figure at the head of everything than me, but this—what is this, Ingrid.”

“I don’t intend to echo your mother or drudge up unfortunate memories but I…” Ingrid falters. “I might be the lady of House Gautier, someday.”

Sylvain keeps his eyes trained on her. Then, on the mountainous horizon.

“I want to be,” Ingrid confesses. 

Sylvain peaks a small, slight smile. She has no idea if he’s being genuine. He can be difficult to read, and she’s always trusted him to be sincere when he works himself to these states. “You want to get married.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what all this is about.”

“Yes.”

“You know I love you no matter what,” he says. He glances back at her. “You know that. Don’t you?”

“Of course,” Ingrid says, “but that’s no reason to marry a girl.”

“That is arguably the only reason to marry a girl,” Sylvain replies. 

“Yes, well, that’s a lovely thought, but I...” Ingrid offers a short huff. “I wanted to prove to you I could do it.”

“Ingrid.”

“I can do it, Sylvain,” Ingrid states. “Please, allow me to do this.”

A feast still roars behind them, its chatters and jeers locked behind the great, dark, wooden doors of the dining hall. Sylvain sucks in a deep breath of fresh air. He dips his head at her. 

“Right,” he says. He laughs and it sounds like a defeat. “I know you can. Can we talk about this in the morning? You and I both have a party to wrap up and a not insignificant bundle of nobles to boot back to their lands.”

“Of course,” Ingrid says.

Sylvain grins. “Great. I’ll see you—well, I guess I’ll see you after dinner.” He holds out his arm for her.

Ingrid hesitates, feeling their conversation lies unfinished and cut loose upon the floor. But Sylvain looks steady. Steadier, at least, than when he excused himself. He is a master at maintaining normalcy.

They return to the feast. Ingrid hosts her side of the table and he leads his, and they feed their guests until everyone is full and drunken and stumbling back to their quarters.

Ingrid returns to her bedroom with no further incident. The festival has been a success. She has accomplished what she has set out to do. Sylvain offers to unlace her bodice for her when they are alone, again. She stands still as he undoes the ties at her back with practiced grace. Her body seems to swell in all directions when the dress is relinquished from her frame. Sylvain kisses her neck, and thanks her for her hard work.

There is some easy, instant comfort in lying at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) Sleep.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072139#workskin)


	8. Sleep.

Sleep eludes Ingrid. 

Sylvain curls his arm around her in bed. It feels like any other night spent between them. It would be, if not for the weight that looms above her heart.

Sylvain is upset. He’s no better expressing himself than she is. They know this of one another, and it would be a more frequent issue if they did not usually sense each other’s hangups on a deeper, intrinsic level. Their third eye has not fallen vacant. She can still sense the concern humming beneath his skin, but he seems reluctant to voice its presence further. He probably does not wish the challenge the determination he senses within her. He’s kind like that.

Ingrid does understand that she has pushed herself too far in a foreign direction, and Sylvain has reacted it in turn. Ingrid does understand that in showcasing herself as a worthy spouse she has perhaps stepped outside their usual synchronicity. She is not overly proficient in matters of the heart but she is not so dim that she cannot read the resigned, saddened look in Sylvain’s eye.

She curls herself closer to him and brainstorms a way to return to their standard bliss. She will have to speak to him, of course. It is something he cannot put off forever and she always preferred to approach such things directly. But it need not be a painful experience. If anything, she would like it to be a romantic. She has not seen him in a full moon, and they have barely stood in one another’s presence during the week of festival preparations.

The festival is over, now. There is mere clean-up work left. They would not be missed if they escaped into the woods around Gautier the following morning. 

Yes, she will coax him outside the castle walls. An honest escapade, one not bogged down by the trimmings of tradition or the roles of a proper noble couple. She will court him in the way those not weighted by the bloodline court one another. She will invite him on a date.

Sylvain stirs where he has rested his head upon her shoulder. Ingrid’s eyes are lulled towards sleep, but in the haze she humors her options. She will ask him to join her—

On a trail ride, astride their beloved horses and deep in the wilderness they used to prowl in their youth. She wants to ride beside him as partners instead of knights, with hope instead of desperation. She wants to spend time with him the way they have, always, and forever.

On a picnic, prepared with love instead of obligation or duty. She wants to sit in the Gautier woods and eat good food and laugh. She simply seeks to spend time at his side, and for him to know that she loves him; no matter the time, place, role, or crest.

She decides…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) A trail ride.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072229#workskin)
> 
> [B) A picnic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072535#workskin)


	9. A trail ride.

Ingrid rises early and dresses herself in riding pants and a warm doublet. She slips on an autumnal teal scarf and buttons the soft calf leather of her riding gloves at the wrist. When Sylvain emerges from the baths she offers, simply: “Ride with me today?”

Sylvain strikes the most handsome silhouette atop a chestnut horse. He is never one to turn down a trail ride, and so the two of them set off into the golden-orange wilderness surrounding the great walls of Gautier. 

Everything feels softer in the light of morning. If there was lingering tension between them, it dissipates with the soft clip-clop crunch of hooves against fallen leaves. Everything feels crisp. The wind is light, and the sky is a cloudless blue.

“I wanted to apologize,” Ingrid states. She rides close enough to him to carry a conversation. Their horses are familiar with one another, and occasionally brush noses along the path.

Sylvain snorts. “I think I remember telling you not to do that.” 

“I upset you yesterday.”

The horses trail onwards. The woods are dense but their path is well-trodden. 

“...You haven’t done anything wrong,” Sylvain says. “I don’t want to see you throw yourself on a blade for me, but I hate to force you into any kind of passive role. That isn’t how we operate. That isn’t the man I want to be.”

“I meant to seduce you, you know.” Ingrid pauses. She attempts a laugh. “It was meant to be a signal. I suppose it became emblematic of more by sheer accident.”

Sylvain lets out a held breath. “There are easier ways to seduce me.”

Ingrid looks to him. “Oh?”

Sylvain hums. “Sometimes, when I see you getting undressed, I feel as if I am the most simple, one-tracked man on earth. A mere puppet to anything you might ask of me.”

“So if I shore off my tunic right now and asked you to marry me,” Ingrid humors, “you’d agree?”

Sylvain’s teeth peek out from a smile—a real smile, one she can firmly mark as genuine. “Maybe,” he says, nodding, “maybe I would. But I wouldn’t want that for you.”

“I want it,” Ingrid declares.

She pulls her horse to a stop. Sylvain notices, and follows. They sit astride their mounts and wait for someone to break the silence.

Ingrid states: “I want you.”

Sylvain replies: “You have me.”

Ingrid says, “I want marriage. You think I’m doing it sorely out of expectation but that’s not true. You’re too caught up in who you think I am.”

Sylvain says, “And I can see, clearly, that you’re tangled up in who you think you should be.”

They’re quiet. He’s not wrong, which is frustrating. She has no retort or defense. She wants to be enough, so terribly. She knows he does not expect it from her but still the pressure presses against her.

“We were fine before,” Sylvain says. “...Weren’t we?”

“Yes,” she says, quickly. “Yes, things were perfect.”

“Then things don’t have to change.”

“You won’t believe me if I say I want them to.”

“I will,” Sylvain says, winded. “If you really, really believe in this, I will. I won’t question it. But you have to look me dead in the eye and say you want to marry me.”

Ingrid blinks. Flushes, maybe, the distant thoughts of their conversation replaced with a blank screen of romance. Her grip tightens on her horse’s reins. “Are you asking me for a proposal?”

Sylvain pauses.

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Oh.”

More silence. A decision lingers before Ingrid. Possibly the biggest decision of her life.

“...It’s your choice,” Sylvain states. His gaze has planted itself fully among the distant wilderness. “I want you in any way you’ll have me. I wasn’t just being agreeable when I told you marriage is a fancy piece of parchment. It’s up to you, Ingrid.” He runs a hand down his horse’s head, petting its soft fur. “It’s always been up to you.”

“That’s a lot to carry,” Ingrid notes.

“The stakes couldn’t be lower, actually.” Sylvain smiles. To her, directly. “Whatever you want more, whatever will make you the happiest—I promise you. I will believe you, and I want it too.”

She thinks about what she really wants, knowing that no matter what they understand where the other stands.

She could marry. She could obtain forgo all obligations, all pretenses about what it means and what she should be within it. She could have him, on official noble records as well as her heart. She could have a wedding. She could have a husband, not one picked for her upon birth or a haunted what-if trailing her every action—one that’s alive, that she’s chosen for herself, that Glenn would want for her if he was here. The thought is enough to bring tears in her eyes. She sees them forming, tiny and shimmering, in Sylvain’s.

Which is why there is another option. It is not really a path, so much as a field. One ripe with harvest that she has already sewn, already maintained. She has a life with Sylvain. It existed before this, and it can exist after, exactly how it is. She has nothing to prove. There is no reason to mark herself as a wife, even an unconventional one—not when Sylvain loves her so dearly, not when she already possesses him so fervently. Not when they are so clearly, so unquestionably, entwined.

Sylvain is right. It means nothing either way. A mere garland of a title on a tree whose roots extend miles underground. And have done so, since they were children.

Sylvain is right. The choice is hers, and there are no wrong answers.

She decides…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) To ask Sylvain to marry her, to have and to hold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072328#workskin)
> 
> [B) To tell Sylvain she’s happiest just the way they are.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072448#workskin)


	10. To ask Sylvain to marry her, to have and to hold.

Ingrid dismounts. She slides from her horse’s back with practiced ease. Sylvain’s horse shifts towards her, curious why she has halted their usual ride. She pats the steed on its neck. In apology, maybe, for disrupting its morning.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she tells the horse.

She reaches for Sylvain’s hand. He lets her take it in her own, leather scuffing across leather. Sylvain’s expression is impassable.

“Sylvain,” she starts, because she has always known what she wants despite her scattered paths and fear of the unconventional. She has always ended up at her desired destination.

“Ingrid,” he replies, smooth and even.

“I love you,” she says. Then, “I have never loved anything as much as I love you.”

“I saw the way you looked at that mutton thigh last night,” Sylvain replies, because he is terrible and she loves him dearly.

“I love you more than mutton,” she affirms. His horse stirs beneath him in impatience and she squeezes his hand. “More than any man or woman I’ve ever met. More than any man or woman I will ever meet.”

He ducks his head down. “You know I feel the same, Ingrid.”

“Then will you marry me?”

Sylvain’s grip grows firm in her own. He presses his weight against it, and she supports him as he dismounts his own horse. He hops to the ground. He pulls her close.

“I’m certain,” she tells him. 

He kisses her. He kisses her strong, and long, and longing. He kisses her in a way he has not kissed her since her departure from Gautier over a moon ago. He pulls her against him and whispers against her lips, “Yes,” and “Yes, Ingrid, of course.”

Ingrid stifles a breath of surprise. It should not be so remarkable. They’ve known where they’ve stood for years. It still makes her feel dizzy.

“Then let’s,” she says.

Sylvain nods, and nods more, every little dip of his head bobbing against hers in repeated affirmation. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I am—I am not certain what I am, what I offer,” Ingrid confesses, “but it is yours.”

“You say that like it isn’t everything,” Sylvain murmurs against her, “like it isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything that’s made my life worthwhile.”

His hands fall firm on her hips and she finds it difficult to feel insecure in such a firm embrace.

“Sorry for the trouble,” she tells him.

“After everything I’ve put you through over the years, I deserved some trouble,” he replies. He laughs. And she does too. The relief between both of them is palpable. The giddy feeling of a decision made settles between them.

“I love you,” Ingrid states, again.

“I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for loving me. I know how easy it is not to.” Sylvain kisses her. It’s a fleeting, sealing press to her lips. He says, “Ingrid. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Ingrid knows what she wants. She always has, subconsciously. It looks just like this.


	11. To tell Sylvain she’s happiest just the way they are.

Ingrid dismounts. She slides from her horse’s back with practiced ease. Sylvain’s horse shifts towards her, curious why she has halted their usual ride. She pats the steed on its neck. In apology, maybe, for disrupting its morning.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she tells the horse.

She reaches for Sylvain’s hand. He lets her take it in her own, leather scuffing across leather. Sylvain’s expression is impassable.

“Sylvain,” she starts, because she has always known what she wants despite her scattered paths and fear of the unconventional. She has always ended up at her desired destination.

“Ingrid,” he replies, smooth and even.

“I love you,” she says. Then, “I have never loved anything as much as I love you.”

“I saw the way you looked at that mutton thigh last night,” Sylvain replies, because he is terrible and she loves him dearly.

“I love you more than mutton,” she affirms. His horse stirs beneath him in impatience and she squeezes his hand. “More than any man or woman I’ve ever met. More than any man or woman I will ever meet.”

He ducks his head down. “You know I feel the same, Ingrid.”

“And that’s why...” Her position is firm. She knows where she stands. She knows where they stand. “I am okay if we stay like this.” She shakes her head. “No, I want to stay like this. We are not upholden to anything. We don’t have to do a single thing but be ourselves.”

Sylvain’s grip grows firm in her own. He presses his weight against it, and she supports him as he dismounts his own horse. He hops to the ground. He pulls her close.

“It’s worked out so far,” she tells him. 

He kisses her. He kisses her strong, and long, and longing. He kisses her in a way he has not kissed her since her departure from Gautier over a moon ago. He pulls her against him and whispers against her lips, “Yes,” and “You and me, Ingrid, always.”

Ingrid stifles a breath of surprise. It should not be so remarkable. They’ve known where they’ve stood for years. It still makes her feel dizzy.

“Then let’s stay just like this,” she says.

Sylvain nods, and nods more, every little dip of his head bobbing against hers in repeated affirmation. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I am—I am not certain what I am, what I offer,” Ingrid confesses, “but it is yours.”

“You say that like it isn’t everything,” Sylvain murmurs against her, “like it isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything that’s made my life worthwhile.”

His hands fall firm on her hips and she finds it difficult to feel insecure in such a firm embrace.

“Sorry for the trouble,” she tells him.

“After everything I’ve put you through over the years, I deserved some trouble,” he replies. He laughs. And she does too. The relief between both of them is palpable. The giddy feeling of a decision made settles between them.

“I love you,” Ingrid states, again.

“I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for loving me. I know how easy it is not to.” Sylvain kisses her. It’s a fleeting, sealing press to her lips. He says, “Ingrid. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Ingrid knows what she wants. She always has, subconsciously. It looks just like this.


	12. A picnic.

Ingrid rises early and dresses herself for chilled weather in pants and a doublet. She slips on an autumnal teal scarf and buttons up the clasps of her warm outer layer. Sylvain sleeps late. When he finally lifts himself from their bed she offers, simply: “How about a picnic for lunch?”

Ingrid prepares the basket herself while Sylvain readies himself in the baths. She has always enjoyed working with food, and slicing cheese, meats, and bread made from the year’s optimistic grain harvest is quick work. Sylvain emerges, smelling clean and sweet, and they set out.

Sylvain strikes a handsome silhouette against the crisp blue autumn sky. He has offered to carry the basket and she has relented its ownership, and so the woven container swings at his side like he’s a child again. Together, the two of them set off into the golden-orange wilderness surrounding the great walls of Gautier. 

Everything feels softer in the light of morning. If there was lingering tension between them, it dissipates with the soft crunch of their boots against fallen leaves. Everything feels fresh. The wind is light, and the sky is clear.

They settle on a clearing an easy mile-and-a-half beyond the gates. Ingrid lays out the blanket and Sylvain begins unloading their bounty atop it. It’s a simple spread, but one that buzzes warm between them. Ingrid is hungry enough to immediately dig in. She wants a full stomach before they sink their teeth into the bigger topics lying between them.

Sylvain is halfway through a chew when Ingrid, at last, broaches her goal.

“I wanted to apologize,” she states. It’s quiet outside the castle, and easy to carry a conversation. It’s easy to breathe beside her partner.

Sylvain snorts. He holds up a hand, asking her to pause, and when he has finished his bite he says, “I think I remember telling you not to do that.” 

“I upset you yesterday.”

The woods are dense but their clearing is bright and alive.

“...You haven’t done anything wrong,” Sylvain says. “I don’t want to see you throw yourself on a blade for me, but I hate to force you into any kind of passive role. That isn’t how we operate. That isn’t the man I want to be.”

“I meant to seduce you, you know.” Ingrid pauses. She attempts a laugh. “It was meant to be a signal. I suppose it became emblematic of more by sheer accident.”

Sylvain lets out a held breath. “There are easier ways to seduce me.”

Ingrid looks to him. “Oh?”

Sylvain hums. “Sometimes, when I see you getting undressed, I feel as if I am the most simple, one-tracked man on earth. A mere puppet to anything you might ask of me.”

“So if I shore off my tunic right now and asked you to marry me,” Ingrid humors, “you’d agree?”

Sylvain’s teeth peek out from a smile—a real smile, one she can firmly mark as genuine. “Maybe,” he says, nodding, “maybe I would. But I wouldn’t want that for you.”

“I want it,” Ingrid declares.

She sets down a half-finished spread of honey on bread. Sylvain notices, and follows to place down his own food. They wait for someone to break the silence.

Ingrid states: “I want you.”

Sylvain replies: “You have me.”

Ingrid says, “I want marriage. You think I’m doing it sorely out of expectation but that’s not true. You’re too caught up in who you think I am.”

Sylvain says, “And I can see, clearly, that you’re tangled up in who you think you should be.”

They’re quiet. He’s not wrong, which is frustrating. She has no retort or defense. She wants to be enough, so terribly. She knows he does not expect it from her but still the pressure presses against her.

“We were fine before,” Sylvain says. “...Weren’t we?”

“Yes,” she says, quickly. “Yes, things were perfect.”

“Then things don’t have to change.”

“You won’t believe me if I say I want them to.”

“I will,” Sylvain says, winded. “If you really, really believe in this, I will. I won’t question it. But you have to look me dead in the eye and say you want to marry me.”

Ingrid blinks. Flushes, maybe, the distant thoughts of their conversation replaced with a blank screen of romance. “Are you asking me for a proposal?”

Sylvain pauses.

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Oh.”

More silence. A decision lingers before Ingrid. Possibly the biggest decision of her life.

“...It’s your choice,” Sylvain states. His gaze has planted itself fully among the distant wilderness. “I want you in any way you’ll have me. I wasn’t just being agreeable when I told you marriage is a fancy piece of parchment. It’s up to you, Ingrid.” His hand absently dips to brush a leaf from their blanket. “It’s always been up to you.”

“That’s a lot to carry,” Ingrid notes.

“The stakes couldn’t be lower, actually.” Sylvain smiles. To her, directly. “Whatever you want more, whatever will make you the happiest—I promise you. I will believe you, and I want it too.”

She thinks about what she really wants, knowing that no matter what they understand where the other stands.

She could marry. She could obtain forgo all obligations, all pretenses about what it means and what she should be within it. She could have him, on official noble records as well as her heart. She could have a wedding. She could have a husband, not one picked for her upon birth or a haunted what-if trailing her every action—one that’s alive, that she’s chosen for herself, that Glenn would want for her if he was here. The thought is enough to bring tears in her eyes. She sees them forming, tiny and shimmering, in Sylvain’s.

Which is why there is another option. It is not really a path, so much as a field. One ripe with harvest that she has already sewn, already maintained. She has a life with Sylvain. It existed before this, and it can exist after, exactly how it is. She has nothing to prove. There is no reason to mark herself as a wife, even an unconventional one—not when Sylvain loves her so dearly, not when she already possesses him so fervently. Not when they are so clearly, so unquestionably, entwined.

Sylvain is right. It means nothing either way. A mere garland of a title on a tree whose roots extend miles underground. And have done so, since they were children.

Sylvain is right. The choice is hers, and there are no wrong answers.

She decides…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A) To ask Sylvain to marry her, to have and to hold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072598#workskin)
> 
> [B) To tell Sylvain she’s happiest just the way they are.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962435/chapters/71072700#workskin)


	13. To ask Sylvain to marry her, to have and to hold.

Ingrid stands. She offers her hand to Sylvain, and he takes it. She pulls him upright, the two of them flanked with miles of trees and hedged with the beating of their own hearts.

She does not release Sylvain’s hand. He lets her take it in her own, his fingers calloused but warm. Sylvain’s expression is impassable.

“Sylvain,” she starts, because she has always known what she wants despite her scattered paths and fear of the unconventional. She has always ended up at her desired destination.

“Ingrid,” he replies, smooth and even.

“I love you,” she says. Then, “I have never loved anything as much as I love you.”

“I saw the way you looked at that mutton thigh last night,” Sylvain replies, because he is terrible and she loves him dearly.

“I love you more than mutton,” she affirms. She squeezes his hand. “More than any man or woman I’ve ever met. More than any man or woman I will ever meet.”

He ducks his head down. “You know I feel the same, Ingrid.”

“Then will you marry me?”

Sylvain’s grip grows firm in her own. He pulls her close.

“Ingrid…”

“I’m certain,” she tells him. 

He kisses her. He kisses her strong, and long, and longing. He kisses her in a way he has not kissed her since her departure from Gautier over a moon ago. He pulls her against him and whispers against her lips, “Yes,” and “Yes, Ingrid, of course.”

Ingrid stifles a breath of surprise. It should not be so remarkable. They’ve known where they’ve stood for years. It still makes her feel dizzy.

“Then let’s,” she says.

Sylvain nods, and nods more, every little dip of his head bobbing against hers in repeated affirmation. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I am—I am not certain what I am, what I offer,” Ingrid confesses, “but it is yours.”

“You say that like it isn’t everything,” Sylvain murmurs against her, “like it isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything that’s made my life worthwhile.”

His hands fall firm on her hips and she finds it difficult to feel insecure in such a firm embrace.

“Sorry for the trouble,” she tells him.

“After everything I’ve put you through over the years, I deserved some trouble,” he replies. He laughs. And she does too. The relief between both of them is palpable. The giddy feeling of a decision made settles between them.

“I love you,” Ingrid states, again.

“I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for loving me. I know how easy it is not to.” Sylvain kisses her. It’s a fleeting, sealing press to her lips. He says, “Ingrid. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Ingrid knows what she wants. She always has, subconsciously. It looks just like this.


	14. To tell Sylvain she’s happiest just the way they are.

Ingrid stands. She offers her hand to Sylvain, and he takes it. She pulls him upright, the two of them flanked with miles of trees and hedged with the beating of their own hearts.

She does not release Sylvain’s hand. He lets her take it in her own, his fingers calloused but warm. Sylvain’s expression is impassable.

“Sylvain,” she starts, because she has always known what she wants despite her scattered paths and fear of the unconventional. She has always ended up at her desired destination.

“Ingrid,” he replies, smooth and even.

“I love you,” she says. Then, “I have never loved anything as much as I love you.”

“I saw the way you looked at that mutton thigh last night,” Sylvain replies, because he is terrible and she loves him dearly.

“I love you more than mutton,” she affirms. She squeezes his hand. “More than any man or woman I’ve ever met. More than any man or woman I will ever meet.”

He ducks his head down. “You know I feel the same, Ingrid.”

“And that’s why...” Her position is firm. She knows where she stands. She knows where they stand. “I am okay if we stay like this.” She shakes her head. “No, I want to stay like this. We don’t have to get married. We are not upholden to anything. We don’t have to do a single thing but be ourselves.”

Sylvain’s grip grows firm in her own. He pulls her close.

“Ingrid…”

“It’s worked out so far,” she tells him. 

He kisses her. He kisses her strong, and long, and longing. He kisses her in a way he has not kissed her since her departure from Gautier over a moon ago. He pulls her against him and whispers against her lips, “Yes,” and “You and me, Ingrid, always.”

Ingrid stifles a breath of surprise. It should not be so remarkable. They’ve known where they’ve stood for years. It still makes her feel dizzy.

“Then let’s stay just like this,” she says.

Sylvain nods, and nods more, every little dip of his head bobbing against hers in repeated affirmation. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I am—I am not certain what I am, what I offer,” Ingrid confesses, “but it is yours.”

“You say that like it isn’t everything,” Sylvain murmurs against her, “like it isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything that’s made my life worthwhile.”

His hands fall firm on her hips and she finds it difficult to feel insecure in such a firm embrace.

“Sorry for the trouble,” she tells him.

“After everything I’ve put you through over the years, I deserved some trouble,” he replies. He laughs. And she does too. The relief between both of them is palpable. The giddy feeling of a decision made settles between them.

“I love you,” Ingrid states, again.

“I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for loving me. I know how easy it is not to.” Sylvain kisses her. It’s a fleeting, sealing press to her lips. He says, “Ingrid. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Ingrid knows what she wants. She always has, subconsciously. It looks just like this.


End file.
